Have you ever been on one of those buses designed for the pushchairs and wheelchairs? They have hydraulics to lower the floor near the door. Never sit on the left hand side of one of those buses. It’s fine if you’re awake and alert, but if you’ve had a long, hard day, and you feel sleepy, please don’t sit on the left hand side. Because you’re brain won’t be able to process the hydraulics going down, and, speaking to you as somebody who this has happened to, you won’t be able to stop your head whacking off the glass window.
I often find strange ways to soothe my sores. You’ve gotta get up and laugh. Injury is a part of who we are. Well, it’s a part of who I am. Along with itchiness and moth killing. What I did was take a shower. Surprisingly, drops of water forced out from the head of a power shower onto one’s sore head doesn’t do said head any good.
The water starts cold and builds to a gentle warmth. It’s lovely. But the initial cold has a profound effect on one’s vocal chords. And that sound differs depending on where the cold hits. You start with a toe barely in the water; a faint shrill emits from the mouth. Then a dip of the knee. There’s more of a rumble in the voice. Then you go high with a shot to the nether-regions. The heat increases. The sensitivity declines. The symphony soothes to a harmonious lull, and the piece is complete. See? Naked Water Orchestra. You could have a world of fun with it. Give it a try. Cheered me up.
Have you heard that cliché – women and shoes? I’m not going to comment on it exactly for fears of reprisal from the feminine community. Not that I would upset you with any opinion I may have, my darlings. You see, women are incredibly complicated, and, as a result of this complication, I’ve done rather well to avoid almost all physical contact with them for over 22 years. Although I’m on the bright pink frilly border with this analogy.
Women and shoes. I’m like this with glasses. I just can’t decide. I want some identical to the ones I have now. But then, after an eon searching for something that I’m used to, which is the correct colour, size and shape, I try something completely different. Just on a whim. Ooh! I like it! It’s snazzy, funky and different! Yes, I want this! Oh, but look at that – there are so many like that. Which to choose. Decisions, decisions. It was a tough call. At the end of it all, I left with my purchase, eighty sterling lighter in the wallet, and with a massive degree of trepidation about my purchase (is it me along with a million other concerns), that those I love will seemingly never hear the end of.
I like my new glasses. I’m off to get them this week, so if I don’t report back with a new post next week, I can’t see out of the new lenses, I’ve fallen down the stairs, call for help immediately, tell Jebus I’ve always loved him, and for the love of pineapples, give my collection of famous ladles to the National Society of Musically Inclined Yet Visually Impaired Fruity Art Teachers.
Eye tests are funny things. I always found it strange that to test your eyesight, they blind you with light. It’s like saying, ‘to test your athletic fitness, here’s a large spoon, a tub of ice cream, a comfy chair and a 40 inch television with all the soapy soppy goodness of ITV1’. Actually, that would be pretty nifty. Except for the ITV1 part. If I was given two ladles and two tubs of ice cream, one vanilla and strawberry (which I love), and one chocolate (which is an abomination), I’d use one ladle to eat the nice cream, and the other to throw the detestable cream at the television. Repeatedly. It would make for a lousy eye test. Better, or worse? Much better, actually. But you cannot see the picture. Yup. Mmm, satire…
I hate my glasses. They’re a bitch to clean. Honestly, it would be easier to clean that talking mould off my bathroom ceiling. I now must keep them clean until I pick up the new ones. Shall be a lark, shan’t it? Harrumph. At least I have nothing else to worry about.
Or so you’d think.
I slept on my arms this week. I’d rolled over onto my chest whilst sleeping and they were trapped. My body woke me to free them. They were riddled with pins and needles, they were extremely heavy and they had no strength. I couldn’t move. I needed to free myself. I needed my arms. I ended up deciding to use my head to free myself. Literally. I had to sort of headbutt the pillow repeatedly until I rolled over. I’m glad I was alone.
The next day, my left arm felt numb. Really hurt. I was worried it may be heart trouble again, but the pain has since gone away and I’m not dead. Which is a bonus.
They say a sign of a heart attack is that you taste copper. I may be alone here, but I don’t eat copper and therefore have no idea about its taste. Doctors really need to come up with something better. Like a smoke alarm in your body but for heart attacks. It would be brilliant in the cinema. You would start beeping, everyone would be pissed off at you, they would start throwing things at you, then you’d collapse in a heap on the floor – having the heart attack. You could then sue every single person in that picture house for inducing your attack rather than helping. They’ll learn a valuable lesson and you’ll be rich. Everybody wins!
Except for you, of course. Because you’d be dead. But apart from that…
“The hurt you embrace becomes joy”, said Persian poet, jurist, theologian and Sufi mystic, Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (1207-1273).
Peace Out :|:
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